Shalom P.S.

Good Things Come To Those Who Wait

I awoke with a start. Panting heavily, heart pounding in agitation, I looked around the room through bleary eyes. Lying on my back, I could see the beginning streaks of morning light filtering through my grandmother’s worn-out yellow curtains. It was only a dream. A bad dream, which unfortunately contained too many elements of truth. Sighing in resignation, I closed my eyes and rolled onto my belly, punching my relatively flat pillow for good measure. All at once, my frame went rigid as a board. My fingers gripped the edges of my pillow like a drowning man who has just been thrown a lifeline. The events of the last seven months played like scenes from the worst movie I had ever seen. Not wanting to trigger a stress induced asthma attack, I ruthlessly slammed that door into my mind. Yea, I envisioned a real door. It was painted a deep blood red. The black doorknob resembled a clawed talon-like hand extended in welcome, just waiting to snatch me into the abyss of depression beyond. Jerking upright I began my deep breathing techniques. Suddenly my nose became alert to the tantalizing smell of homemade biscuits. Smiling to myself, I felt the last tendrils of tension melt away. My grandmother always knew just what I needed. To some of the locals, she was a healer. Many others called her a witch. To me, she was just Gran. The elderly woman who took one look at the sad-eyed mute little girl and raised her as her own. Kicking my legs free of the clingy sheets, I made my way to the kitchen. My tiny grandmother moved adeptly around the room like someone half her age.